Second Chance
by Grand High Idol
Summary: They say that if you do not learn your history, you are doomed to repeat it. No one remembered Chance, the adolescent farmer boy bent on homicide, but the present is about to re-enact it...in one of the most horrifying ways imaginable. [Chap. 2 up]
1. Chapter One

It was dark, and the sky was letting down a small drizzle. A small boy ran for his life, ducking under branches, leaping over fallen trees, splashing through puddles. The figure behind him continued in hot pursuit, the heavy, ragged breathing almost down the boy's neck. He whimpered to himself and ran faster.

_How'd this happen?_ He thought to himself as he frantically scrambled over a rock. _How? He was so calm...so calm..._

He gave a cry as he slipped and fell, tumbling down into the shallow bed of the creek. Coughing and sputtering, he shakily drew himself up, but it was too late to do anything now; he could hear the footsteps right behind him. He groaned, fell back down into the silt-ridden mud, and slowly turned over onto his back, both hands to his face.

The towering pine trees swirled all around him. The moon was bright, reflecting the glint of silver that shone off the blade of the machete his killer was carrying. The figure raised the blade high over his head, his eyes wild, his mouth set in a twisted snarl.

"Ready to _die_?" he growled...

* * *

**SECOND CHANCE**

**By Grand High Idol**

**Inspired by the novel "Twisted" by Sue Hollister Barr**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends, nor any of its characters.**

**CHAPTER ONE**

**New England, fall of 1804.**

"What are you doing back there, boy?" a portly, middle-aged man called to the back of his wagon, a trace of agitation in his voice. "I didn't raise you to be a slack-off! Now finish loading that hay so we can go to town!"

"Yes, Papa," the boy in back replied, sounding rather agitated himself. He sighed in frustration, then threw another pitchfork of hay into the back of the wagon. From behind him, his little brother, Cal, and his little sister, Hester, sat near the entrance to the barn, watching him work. The boy working—a young adolescent—turned to them, flashed them a leer, then returned to his hay-pitching.

It was harvest season again, and every year the family would head into town, away from their current rural settlement, to sell their goods and produce. Every year since the young teen had turned twelve it had been this way—pitch the hay, shuck the corn, clean the animals, harness up the horses, big whoop. There were days when he wished that he wasn't the eldest; that someone else could do all the dirty work while he watched, but no such luck. There weren't many advantages to being the firstborn in this family, it seemed.

He grunted as he pitched the last of the hay into the back, then wiped the sweat from his brow and turned to look at the porch. The boy's mother then walked out, clothed in her best formal dress, the cheerful smile of optimism on her face, as usual. She trotted over to the barn, gave Hester and Cal each a kiss on the forehead, then walked over to where the teen was currently standing.

"Chance, you're doing a wonderful job," she remarked, then gave him a quick hug—watching the pitchfork—before walking to the front of the wagon. "Take care, okay, boys?"

"Don' worry your pretty little head," the portly man replied, giving his wife a kiss on the hand. "We'll be jus' fine, won't we, Chance?"

"Mm-hmm." The boy nodded, leaning over on the pitchfork; he didn't sound very impressed.

Cal, enthusiastic, leapt up and began to head for the wagon. "Mama, I'm old enough to go to town this year, remember?" he exclaimed. "Can't I please go with Chance and Papa? Please?" He looked up at the wagon, his eyes bright. "I'll stay out of trouble, I swear!"

The portly man looked down at him, then finally replied, "Oh, all right, Cal, you can come. But jus' so long as you stay with Chance while I'm selling my goods, alright?"

"Oh, I will!" Cal replied, eyes sparkling. He leapt onto the back of the wagon, next to Chance, his golden-brown hair complimenting the hay that surrounded them. The portly man in front cracked the whip, and with a jolt, they were off.

"Goodbye, Mama!" Cal called, waving, as his little sister and mother vanished into the distance. "I promise I'll be good! I'll try and get you something special, Hester! Goodbye!"

He sighed, blew a wisp of straw away from his face, then flopped down next to Chance. Chance had always been a solemn, quiet type, even when he was young, but Cal still admired him for how hard he worked to keep the family running. He was a handsome young man, his ebony hair perfectly in place, his eyes the dull gray of storm-clouds, his skin unnaturally pallid despite the fact that he worked in the fields most of the day. Chance was a hard worker and a supportive big brother, but at the same time Cal and Hester feared him. There was just something about the teen that was unnatural to them; they just couldn't quite place a finger on it yet.

Chance was now lying atop a bed of straw, chewing on one end of a blade of grass, the brim of his old-fashioned straw hat pulled down over his eyes. Cal drew his knees up to his chest and watched him. He was always so care-free, so eager-to-please, but what did that mean, exactly? What was his motive?

He was thinking things again. He sighed, then flopped down onto his stomach and stared down at the dirt road as it passed underneath him. In another fifteen minutes, he guessed, they would be in town.

* * *

**Small urban town,** **fall of 2004.**

The apartment was a mess. The balcony was littered with toilet paper, the halls splashed with beer, potato chips littering the ground, soda spills all over the couch. A blond-haired boy, his hair shoulder-length and tied back in a ponytail, snuck up behind an ebony-haired teen, a bottle of dish soap in one hand.

"Think fast!" the blonde cried, and before the ebony teen could reply the dish soap had been emptied out all over him. He gave a cry of disgust, then removed his plaid overcoat and chucked it at the blonde.

"Dammit, Rusty!" he exclaimed angrily. "It's going to take _hours_ to get this stuff off of me!"

"Lighten up, man," Rusty replied, removing the overcoat from his face and tossing it aside. "You may not be in the right mood, but hell, Terrence, you sure can throw one heck of a party!"

"Yeah, yeah." Terrence ran his hand through his hair, picking up quite a bit of dish soap in the process. "But listen, you've gotta get the guys out of the bathroom, and _soon_. I mean it. If Mom gets home before this she's going to bite my head off."

"What about that wimpy little brother of yours?" Rusty asked, flopping down on the couch. "Whatever happened to him? I haven't seen him here in weeks."

"Pheh, he went to this stupid freaky house to play with his dumb imaginary friend," Terrence replied, trying to get the excess dish soap off of his face using his overcoat. "Typical, huh? Can't beat on him 'till he gets home. Of course, this _does_ give me more time to myself..."

"Haven't you tried to maul him while he's _at_ the house?"

"Been there, done that. Bad experience." Terrence tossed the overcoat aside once more. "Okay, so we've got about an hour left before my mom gets home. We've done practically everything we can do at a house party...what's left to do besides watch TV?"

"Well, I watched this one movie where this guy gets hypnotized at a house party and he starts seeing freaky things," Rusty explained. "Why don't we try that out? Can't hurt."

"I don't believe in that psychic junk," Terrence replied skeptically. He flopped down on the couch next to Rusty. "I just think it's something used by people to gain publicity. Honestly, if you could read my thoughts, would I even _need_ to speak to you?" He flipped his hair back. "Besides, I can't _be_ hypnotized."

Rusty cocked an eyebrow. "Quite sure of ourselves, aren't we?"

"I'm just speaking the truth."

"Heh. Sure you are." Rusty looked toward the door, which was partially open, then looked back at Terrence. "Tell you what. Why don't we go out to the town graveyard and I'll try my stuff on you there? It'll provide a creepy air and we'll at least get to spend some time away from the other guys."

"Mike and Steve are going to find out we're missing sooner or later," Terrence replied, just as cynical as he had been before.

Rusty laughed. "Are you kidding? Steve drank so much he's practically unconscious, and Mike...heh, well, _Mike_ isn't going anywhere." He clapped the ebony-haired teen on the back. "So, what do you say? It's worth a shot."

Terrence sighed. "Well, anything is better than watching Mike ralph. I suppose we could give it a shot." He arose from the couch. "But I still can't be hypnotized."

"We'll see about that," Rusty replied cockily, as the two left through the door.

* * *

**New England town, 1804.**

"Remember, boy, you're in charge of your little brother while I'm in town. If anything happens to him—anything at all—_you'll_ be the one to blame. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, Papa," the ebony-haired teen replied, arms crossed. Cal stood behind him, taking in the sights of the town, eager-eyed.

"Good." He clapped Chance on the shoulder. "You're quite the responsible one, my boy. I have the feelin' that you'll make yourself a wonderful farmer one o' these days."

"Thank you." Chance still seemed dark, agitated, underneath the brim of his straw hat. Cal found it strange that his father didn't seem to notice this.

The portly man turned around, then began to unload his crates of produce from the wagon. "Now why don't you go look around for awhile, boys? I don't think I'll need your help in this field."

"Okay!" Cal replied brightly. He turned around and began to walk off, eager to see the town for what it was. Chance looked after him, then looked back at his father.

"You watch your little brother now, you hear me?"

"Yes, Papa." Chance's voice was still as emotionless as it had been before. He took one last look at the man, then turned around and began to head in the direction of his little brother. Upon catching up to Cal, he snagged him by the wrist and drew him close.

"Ouch!" the younger boy cried. "Chance, what are you—"

"Listen to me, you little wretch," Chance hissed angrily at him, his pallid hand tightening on the young boy's wrist. "Whatever you plan on doing, I want you to get out of my way and _stay_ out. And if you even _dare_ tell father what I said to you—"

"Chance, I promised! We made the deal last night, remember?" Cal whined, struggling to free himself from the older boy's grasp. "Now stop it, okay? Just stop it! I'll keep to myself, I swear!"

"Good." Chance let go of his wrist, shoving him slightly as he did so. The young boy lost his balance and landed hard in the dust, coughing and choking on the clouds that arose from the impact. Chance leered at him, pulled the brim of his straw hat lower, then turned around and walked off.

Forcing back tears of rage, Cal slowly staggered to his feet and dusted off his clothing. Sure, they'd made a deal last night—but Chance had seemed much less agitated than he had now. Was the entire scenario really necessary?

He sighed. Maybe Chance was in one of his "bad" moods. He had been working hard in the sun all day; maybe the heat had just gotten to him more than it usually had.

Forgetting about his older brother for a trifle of a moment, he looked around in awe at the sights of the town. Never had he seen so many houses, so many different buildings, in one place...! He didn't know where to start looking. Perhaps he should stop by the General Store and get a gift for Hester? Or maybe stop by the old mill and talk with the owner of the place?

So many decisions...

He stopped when he heard the clacking of hooves on the pavement—hooves that had been shoed, cleaned, and apparently polished. He stared in awe at the magnificent horse that passed by him, its painted white-and-brown coat gleaming, and its mane an aura of magnificent colors. Its brown eyes seemed to look at him as it clopped past.

Ever since he was five, Cal had always wanted a horse of his own—or at least be around one. Sadly, the only horse he had ever come into close contact with was Verity, their old cart-and-plow horse, and even so, she was rusty with age. He had even overheard plans by his father about putting her down eventually.

He looked toward the direction of the horse excitedly. Maybe there was a stable in the area—he could actually look at some of the most prized horses in the county!

Forgetting all about Chance, he ran off after the horse, full of enthusiasm.

* * *

**Suburban graveyard, 2004.**

"Careful where you step," Rusty said in a phony ghost voice. "You may wake the _deeeeeeaaaad_!"

Terrence elbowed Rusty in the shoulder. "Not funny," he replied. Drawing his arms around himself, he looked around the graveyard. Rows upon rows of tombstones and monuments lined the vast area, their silhouettes haunting, almost evil, in the dull moonlight. "Geez, Rusty, did we even have to come here? I can't believe I let you talk me into this."

"What's the matter?" Rusty said, smirking. "Afraid of a few corpses?"

"No, it's just that..." Terrence sighed. "Look, Rusty, my dad was buried here along with God-knows-who-else. We're so far back in the graveyard I'm beginning to see tombstones dating as far back as the Civil War."

"That's good," Rusty replied, nodding. He stepped over a small tombstone; Terrence almost ended up stumbling over it. "I hear that the further back you go, the better the spell works. Once we reach the direct center we can start, okay?"

"And just how the hell do you know where the direct center _is_?" Terrence demanded, shaking from the cold. "As far as I can tell we're stuck in the middle of nowhere. Let's just sit down and get this whole stupid thing over with, okay?"

Rusty looked at him with a skeptical air, but instead shrugged and replied with a simple "Fine." The two boys took their seats atop adjacent tombstones, Rusty facing Terrence. The blonde took a deep breath, then held his hands out in front of him.

"Okay, Terrence, listen to me, and listen to me closely," he began. "Close your eyes. Shut out everything around you."

"This is stupid..." Terrence muttered, but he did so anyway. Rusty continued:

"Now just sit there a moment. Take in the noises of your surroundings. Let every muscle in your body relax. Every...single...muscle."

Terrence sighed in response. Rusty smiled, ran his tongue over his teeth, then once again resumed: "You're in complete blackness now. Everything and everyone around you is gone. The only thing you see is the dark. The only thing you hear is my voice." He paused. "But wait...you see a light up ahead. It's dull, but you see it. You find that it's actually an eye examination screen.

"It bears the letters S-L-E-E-P. You read over them carefully, pouring them through your mind. You are now ready to begin your trip into your subconscious."

Terrence made an unintelligible noise. Rusty drew in a deep breath, held his fingers out in front of the ebony-haired teen, then commanded, "Now _sleep_."

He snapped his fingers. The boy's head dropped down onto his chest, his shoulders sagged, and his body fell limp.

"Now then," Rusty said softly, "What do you see...?"

* * *

**New England town, 1804.**

The stable was much larger than Cal had imagined, and the air was thick with the strong scent of hay and droppings. Stalls lined either side of the walls; he stopped when he saw the multicolor horse being led in—by a girl, nonetheless. She appeared about his age, her brown hair falling down to the middle of her back, her light-blue dress smudged with dirt. He licked his lips dryly, then began to move toward her.

The girl didn't know that he was following her until she turned around to face him, which provoked Cal to jump. She giggled; the horse tossed its head and snorted.

"Sorry to startle you," she told him, in a voice that sounded as soft as a meadowlark's. "What exactly are you doing in here? Have you come for your horse?"

"No, no, Verity will be just fine," Cal replied (forgetting for a moment that Verity was actually with his father), grinning weakly. "Um...my name is Calloway. Calloway Kraige. My family calls me Cal for short." He heaved a deep sigh through his teeth. "Um...I like your horse."

"Thank you." She smiled. "She's a champion—a blue-ribbon winner for three years running, now. Known around the county as Julia Harding's Colors Flying."

"Are you...?"

The girl nodded. "Julia. Julia Harding. I raised Colors from a filly when I was...I think eight. She's wonderful, that she is. Not only can she run like the wind, but I also think..." She smiled, then brought her mouth close to his ear. "I also think that she can sense spirits."

"Really?" Cal's eyes widened.

"Yes. I sometimes take her to the private graveyard near our farm and lead her around there, and I think she can see them. And hear them. It's amazing."

"Wow." Cal heaved another deep breath. "I wish I could partake in something like that."

"Well, perhaps if you asked your father, I could take you back for the evening and we could probably go—"

"Cal!"

The two turned in time to see Chance standing in the doorway, arms akimbo, his features cold as ice. His steel-gray eyes burned into Cal's, almost in fury, and he continued, traces of quiet insanity in his tone, "Cal, father has gone to the General Store, and he wants you and I to accompany him. So get away from that _insipid_ girl and her _inane_ excuse for a nag and let us—"

His voice was drowned out by a loud whinny from Colors Flying. Julia and Cal both turned to look at her, their eyes wide, as she reared up on her hind legs, pawed the air, then, eyes wild, charged for the entrance to the stable—the exact spot where Chance was standing. Chance flinched, then slowly backed away to the side of the doorway.

"What in Hell's name—"

Colors raised her front hooves again, then brought them down on the raven-haired boy mercilessly. He heard a loud _CRUNCH_ sound as the left side of his ribcage shattered, and his side caved in; he gave a loud shriek of pain mixed with rage...

* * *

"Terrence! Terrence, stop it!"

The boy continued to scream, hands at his side, as he lay on the ground, writhing and twisting in utmost agony. He had seen the horrible creature ram down on him; heard the crunching sounds of his ribs breaking, and all had gone black afterward. He had fallen off of the gravestone and landed hard on the ground, still kicking and screaming, eyes shut. Rusty, looking around in a panic, brought his hands to the teen's shoulders and shook him roughly.

"Terrence! It's okay! Snap out of it!"

(_Chance! Chance, I'm so sorry! Are you okay? She didn't mean it!_

_I don't understand...she's never acted out this way on anyone before...)_

Terrence heaved a deep sigh, then slowly opened his eyes—in time to see Rusty standing over him, a worried look set upon his features. The raven-haired boy groaned, then rubbed at his head, slowly sitting up.

"Oh God," he murmured. "Wha—what happened back there...?"

"You were silent for a moment, then you suddenly started screaming and fell over," Rusty explained to him. He helped the boy to his feet. "You okay? You landed pretty hard on that one tombstone over there."

"I—I'm fine," Terrence breathed, leaning against Rusty. "It was just a hallucination from the hypnosis, I—I guess." He sighed. "What a trip!"

"What happened? What did you see?"

"I—I don't remember, exactly," he replied. "I just remember something charging at me, then attempting to trample me. It seemed so real...God, my side hurts."

_(Someone get a doctor! Please, for God's sake, get a doctor!)_

Rusty shook his head. "I'm not surprised, frankly. Like I said, you landed on your side pretty hard." He began to walk back toward the front gates of the graveyard, dragging a half-dazed Terrence on his shoulders. "I think we'd better get you home, man. You look pretty pale."

_(Is he dead? Please, don't let him be dead! My father will never forgive me!_

_He's not dead, he's still breathing—)_

"I'm gonna be sick..." He shut his eyes tightly as the nausea swept over him, and fought back the urge to retch on the spot.

"You'll be okay, trust me," Rusty told him. "You were right, man, I never should have talked you into this. I honestly had no idea that this would happen." He blew a whiff of blond hair off of his forehead. "Hopefully you'll be better in the morning."

"I dunno..." Terrence moaned, then fell limp against Rusty's shoulder. The blonde sighed, then heaved the teen up onto his back and carried him back to the graveyard's front gates.

* * *

He hated Colors Flying after that. The damned animal had pawed him nearly to death for no apparent reason whatsoever, and he was furious. Sure, the doctor had told him that he was going to live—he just had to spend a few months laying low until his ribs healed—but where was that getting him? He was sure that the nag had punched a great-sized hole in one of his lungs, the pain was so unbearable. Not all the painkillers in the world would fix a thing like that.

He had a plan, however. During his state of half-consciousness he had heard all about Julia's farm location; it actually wasn't too far a walk from theirs. His ribs still blazed like the dickens and it hurt to move, but revenge would make it better for him. He knew it would.

It was the thing, to him, that was right, and good.

The last dose of morphine that had been given to him had worn him down a bit, but still he kept a close eye—and ear—for movements or sounds of anyone in the house. Once the final candle in the hallway had been blown out, and the creaking ceased, he knew that it was time. Inhaling deeply, he slowly arose and, ignoring the burning pain in his ribs, slowly stepped out of bed. He was still in his nightclothes, but that need not matter; no one was to know about this anyway.

It took him at least an hour to limp out of the house—the floorboards were old with age and creaked at the lightest step, not to mention he was walking with one side of his body practically caved in. He had to open every door with caution. Once he was on the porch, silently shutting the door after him, he looked out to the fields, eyes blazing with utmost insanity.

The sky was cloudless; it was a harvest moon. The fields of corn beyond the barn swayed with the light breeze of fall, and the scarecrow perched in the center seemed to him, in his state, like a hanged man. Doom was in the air tonight. He could feel it, smell it, almost taste it.

Grinning madly, Chance began to lurch toward the dirt road that led to town—along with some selected farms, Julia's included. Staggering like a drunkard along the road, he continued down the path for quite some time—the moon was in the middle of the sky once he had reached his destination.

Oh, this Julia Harding was rich, all right; her house was like a stately manor compared to their own. Beyond the manor lay a barn; he supposed that was where her family kept the livestock—Colors Flying included. His expression still maniacal, he began to lurch toward the barn.

He stopped at the side of the house, however, when he noticed something glimmering in the dull moonlight. Puzzled, he knelt down and wrapped his fingers around the cold, wooden handle, lifting it up to the sky. His reflection leered back at him in the silver; he grinned madly.

A hatchet. This was too perfect.

The damned horse had caved in his side, but tonight would be the last she would ever see of him. Hatchet slung over one shoulder, he once again headed in the direction of the barn, his steps lighter, more careful. Sure, the pain was nearly unbearable, but he knew that it would be worth it.

An eye for an eye, a life for a life. That had been his motto.

He stopped at the door; it was wide-open, surprisingly, but surrounded by wooden fencing. Gently hopping over it, he headed into the barn.

It smelled of old hay. He heard the grunting of swine; the soft snoring noises of the cows, and in the back—surrounded by ribbons—the horse herself. Colors Flying. She was asleep at the moment, her head down, her breathing shallow. Chance stepped toward her.

At hearing his footfall, she jerked her head up. The boy in the doorway was no one she knew well, but somehow she sensed evil in his presence. Her ears flattened, she gave a low neighing sound and backed against the wall. Chance was not intimidated.

"Stupid nag," he whispered, coming closer and closer to her, the hatchet at ready. "Stupid, stupid nag."

Colors Flying gave a high whinnying sound and pawed at the air, but Chance took no heed of this. He was now directly in front of her stall, hatchet poised, the eyes of insanity burning into her brown ones.

"You know what you did," he breathed, raising the hatchet. "Now you must pay. You must _pay_."

Colors tossed her head, backing to one side, then the next. Chance approached her, seized her by the mane with one hand, then with the other brought the hatchet down with sheer force into the center of her head.

Years of working in the fields had given him strength, even in his pained state. The silver blade of the hatchet sunk deeply into her skull, the gray mixing with the dull red of blood. She gave a high-pitched screech, tossing her head, trying to get the horrid object _OUT_—

The pressure was proven to be too great. Giving one last weak cry, her head burst apart in a spray of blood and carnage, splattering the walls in a mural of pink, white, and red. A cow bawled from the other side of the barn; several pigs squealed as the horse's body fell to the ground, limp as a sack of grain.

Chance, his face smeared with blood, looked down at her, sneering.

Colors-fucking-Flying, indeed.

Wiping the excess from his face, he began to head out of the barn, smiling madly as he went on his way, and imagining the expression on Julia's face when she awoke to find her precious animal dead in the morning.


	2. Chapter Two

**SECOND CHANCE**

**By Grand High Idol**

**CHAPTER TWO**

Early the next morning, Frankie Foster's scream pierced the silence of the air on the grounds of Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends, sending Mr. Herriman—along with several other Friends—scrambling toward the source of the noise, which had turned out to be the Mythical Equestrian Center. Unlike its usual mornings, the unicorns and pegasi were not standing around and grazing carefree, but instead tense and shocked.

Mr. Herriman quickly hopped over the fence and toward the direction of the main stable, a furry red friend and a large, minotaur-resembling purple one after him. They stopped at the door, frozen in place. The large 20th century rabbit's gaze traveled slowly down to the ground.

Blood had pooled around the stable doors, along with a slowly winding trail leading deeper into the stable, where, apparently, Frankie was located. Much as Herriman feared blood since the dog incident, he instead heaved a deep breath and hopped further into the stable. The other two followed him, the purple one clinging tightly to the red one, and the red one gently stroking him on the head and explaining that everything was okay, that there was probably nothing to worry about.

Taking care to watch the blood, their followings led them all the way to the back of the stable, where Frankie was backed up against the wall, pale as death, both hands clutching her face in a panic. A bucket of oats was spilled on the ground next to her, some of them mixing with the horrible substance that now trailed through the stable. She was screaming something, but it wasn't until they drew closer that they could actually decipher it:

"JOE! OH MY _GOD_, JOE!"

"Miss Francis!" Mr. Herriman hopped into the stall and placed both hands on the young woman's shoulders. "What in heaven's name is going on in here!"

Frankie continued to shiver, then swallowed and said, her voice shaky, continuing to stare straight ahead, "Joe…they killed Joe…they _killed Joe_—"

"Nonsense!" Herriman spoke firmly. "This stable is under protection during the night hours. I'm positive that Joe will be just—"

"Um, I'm sorry, Mr. H, but I don't think he _will_ be okay," Wilt replied nervously. He was staring down at the still object on the ground, Eduardo cowering behind him, eyes shut tightly, whimpering things unintelligible. Mr. Herriman turned around to make a protest, but once he saw what it was Frankie had seen, he clapped a hand over his mouth.

"Oh, my…"

The scenario was probably the most grotesque that he had seen in years. The unicorn Joe—what was left of him, anyway—lay sprawled out on the floor, limp and lifeless, legs spread at questionable angles. His head had been hacked into, apparently, with a blunt silver object of which he could not identify; the blood amount was too great. Splashes of carnage and blood decorated the walls beside him; his head was split wide open, revealing what was left of his head, muscles, skull, brain and all. A single brown eye stared helplessly out of a bloodied socket, its expression wide in fear. Rivulets of blood continued to run down from the head and soak the hay beneath him.

The rabbit looked up, shivering in disgust. Frank and Bill, the other two unicorns that shared the stall with the now late Joe, were backed up against the stable wall, shaking with dread, their tails nearly between their legs. Wilt continued to stare down at the body in sheer surprise and revulsion, while Eduardo was trying his hardest not to scream or cry—one of the two. Frankie still looked pallid and sick as she slumped against the wall.

"Came—to give them—their oats—found Joe dead—oh God, oh God, oh _God_—"

She gave a light moan, then collapsed to the ground; Wilt quickly rushed to her aid, Eduardo following behind him, still whimpering. As the furry red imaginary friend lifted the girl up, Mr. Herriman bent over to inspect the corpse. Slowly, unaware of himself, one gloved hand traveled up the bloodied handle of the object, then along the curved border—the part that was still left outside of Joe's head, anyway.

"A hatchet," he finally concluded, his voice soft, almost close to breaking in fear. "I don't know who was responsible for this mutilation, but they used the hatchet near the front of the house—the one used for chopping firewood." He straightened himself back up and shook his head. "How horrible. How horrible…"

"Are you going to pull it out?" Wilt asked; Eduardo whined and shook his head, covering his eyes.

"No," Mr. Herriman replied. "It'll probably just worsen Joe's current condition. Instead I shall notify the authorities immediately and call upon some of the stronger friends to do something about Joe's body." He tsked and shook his head. "Poor creature. No one deserves a fate like this."

"Who would _do_ something like this?" Wilt asked him worriedly. "I know practically everyone here, and not one of them has held any sort of grudge against Joe—or any of the other unicorns, for that matter."

"Indeed," Mr. Herriman agreed, turning away from the corpse. "The only one that Joe had—how may I put it—injured in the past was Master Red, and even then he was quite forgiving with them. He doesn't seem like the type to pull something like this off." He sighed and adjusted his monocle. "I shall have to spend some time thinking over this. Master Wilt, please escort Miss Francis back to her room until she comes to. Master Eduardo will lead the other two current witnesses out of the stall."

"No leave me here alone," Eduardo whined; Wilt gently gave him a pat on the head—taking care to watch Frankie's body.

"Don't worry, Eduardo," Wilt told him. "Someone will help Joe soon. In the meantime, though, you've gotta get Frank and Bill out of here. I'm sure that they're just as scared as you are right now."

Eduardo looked up at him, then down at Joe, then over at the still-shaking Frank and Bill, then finally replied with a reluctant "Okay." Wilt smiled, flashed him the thumbs-up, then began to head out of the stable, gently carrying Frankie in his one good arm. Mr. Herriman hopped out behind him.

"I think it's best that we do not inform Master Mac of the deed," he told Wilt as they left. "He might be worried…and we shall certainly _not_ inform Master Blooregard. I have the suspicion that he may start to point fingers."

"I'm sorry, but what about the other friends?" Wilt asked. "I think that they have the right to know about it—if there's someone on the loose with a tendency to kill, we should all be watching our backs, don't you think?"

"I will inform them post-haste," Herriman replied as they came to a halt near the front door. "In the meantime, Master Wilt, you should focus on getting Miss Francis back to her sleeping quarters."

Wilt shrugged. "Okay," he replied, as the two entered through the door.

* * *

Terrence hadn't slept well last night, and it wasn't just because of the amount of soda he had drank. His side had continued to throb in pain even after Rusty had returned him to his room, even in his subconscious, and he kept having strange visionaries—very similar to the one he had had last night in the graveyard. Something pawing the air, something silver, a wave of blood-red color… 

Then darkness. He hadn't remembered a thing after that.

He was finally awake—but just barely. Groaning, he rubbed his head, which still ached, then looked around his room. Nothing out of the ordinary here; usual sloppy mess it always was. He sighed and slumped against his pillow, eyes shut, feeling weaker than usual. He didn't want to wake up; he'd wanted to sleep. His energy had been drained to the critical point, it had seemed.

Must have been from last night.

"Can't believe I let him talk me into it…" He folded the pillow to his head, then groaned and flipped onto his back. When sleep refused to come, even despite his aching weariness, he finally sighed and sat up.

"Dammit." He slowly arose from the bed, almost tripping over himself. He rubbed at his head again. "I need a soda."

Throwing open the door to his bedroom, he trudged out through the threshold and into the hallway, dragging his feet, still on the verge of falling back down again. Sighing, he looked up toward the direction of the living room/kitchen—the door was closed; Mac was nowhere to be seen. Must have gone to that nutty house, he thought to himself cynically. Then…

"GAH!"

He gave a cry of surprise as he finally lost his balance, ramming his chest up against the wall. A stab of pain shot through his body, but it only lasted a brief second; he moaned, placed both hands on the wall, and slowly pulled himself away.

Funny thing…it seemed more difficult than he interpreted. His shirt stuck fast to the wall—almost as if someone had coated it with superglue—and it took him awhile to finally yank himself off. When he did, he looked back at where he had made impact, expecting to see a small dent in the wall—these things were made of terrible material; he had kicked one of the walls in once when he was nine and had never heard the end of it. But what he saw this time was much more surprising.

Where he had struck, the impact had left a massive brown-red smear, patterned with both the cotton of his shirt and the dry stucco of the wall. His senses began to wake up; he recognized the coppery odor of the stuff—

"Oh, God." He looked down at his shirt, then grabbed at it with one hand and pulled it gently away from his torso. Indeed, it had stuck dead-fast, and when he pulled his hand away he found the exact same smears that were on the wall coating his palm. Eyes widening, he quickly yanked off his shirt and overjacket, throwing them to the floor. His chest and abdomen were still stained with the stuff; there seemed to be no end to it.

He didn't understand. Sure, he had passed out, but he didn't think he'd done anything to injure himself…and he trusted Rusty, had known him for years. Enough to know that he would never try to pull off something like this. The stuff was real enough; he cancelled out the idea of it being a simple cinematic effect…

Just to make sure, he checked himself all over for any wounds…but only found more blood. Caked in his hair, smeared across his face, scabs of dried rivulets on his neck…

Twitching slightly, he turned around to face the end of the hallway. "I think I need a shower," he said to himself, sounding rather shaken, as he began to walk in the direction of the bathroom.

_Rusty, you bastard_, he thought as he threw open the door. _What the hell did you _do_ to me…?_

* * *

"Chance, I've never seen you so delightfully chipper!" the boys' mom commented, as Chance came limping down the stairs to the kitchen, smiling crudely. "I suppose that you are feeling well?" 

"Never better." Chance slowly descended from the bottom step, then limped over to the table. "The pain is great, mind you, Mother, but I seem to be able to heal quickly. Perhaps I shall even be able to work again within a matter of weeks."

"That is wonderful." She gave him a quick kiss on the forehead, then turned around to watch the stove, where a pot of oatmeal was currently boiling. "You'll have to tell that news to your father, once he comes in. Without your help he's been operating the fields twice as slow now." She shook her head. "Your poor father."

"I understand, Mother," Chance replied, taking a seat at the table. He looked around—Cal and Hester were gone, probably still in bed. He sighed. "If it were not for that horrible creature I'd be out in the fields right now."

"I don't understand why that horse attacked you in the first place," she commented. "Must have not been broken in properly…skittish. I shall have to talk to the Hardings about the incident immediately."

"Oh, no, no, you don't need to do that," Chance replied, folding his hands innocently. "I feel that they've learned their lesson after what happened to me. There's no need to take this in too deeply." A cold glint seemed to flash behind his eyes; his mother took no notice.

"Such a nice boy." She smiled at him warmly, then walked over to the pantry. "Your brother and sister should be down any moment now. I told them that breakfast would be ready soon."

"Should I get them?"

"No, no, I think they'll—" She was interrupted by a knock at the door. Sighing and wiping her hands off on her apron, she looked over curiously. "Now who could that be?"

She walked over to the door. Chance's ecstatic demeanor faded as she answered the door; he sensed that something wasn't right—something that could possibly endanger his secret from last night. Sure enough, a chill ran up his spine as he heard the little girl's voice from the doorway:

"Hello. Is this the Kraige residence?"

"Yes, it is. What may I do for you?"

"I want to speak to Calloway, ma'am."

* * *

"I haven't seen Frankie all morning," Mac commented as he and Bloo sat on the swing set, adjacent to each other. "That's not like her. I wonder what's wrong?" 

"I wouldn't worry about it," Bloo replied. "I think she's just a bit worried, is all. I heard something happened this morning that made her totally freak out."

A worried look crossed the boy's face. "Really?"

"Well, I don't know. All I know is I heard it." The little blue blob shrugged. "Something to do with one of the unicorns. I don't know all the details."

"What about the unicorns?"

"Hey, I said I don't know all the details, okay?" Bloo replied crossly. "I tried to ask 'em, mind you, but they wouldn't tell me. Wilt didn't, Coco didn't, and when I asked Eduardo he freaked and ran away." He sighed and looked ahead, his features still set. "Man, this is going to be even more difficult than the secret door."

"Bloo, don't."

"What?" Bloo asked innocently. "All I said was—"

"Last time something like that happened we got in trouble," Mac told him. "And this one sounds a lot more serious if it could make Frankie act that way. If they don't want us to know, we should just stay out of the way, got it?"

"Whatever." Bloo glanced down at the ground, then looked back up. "What do you think it was? Maybe they kicked in a stable wall or something."

"Bloo, let's just drop it." Mac got off the swing. "You wanna go inside? Because I wanna go inside."

"Admit it, man, you're just avoiding the subject," Bloo replied smugly, leaning against one of the chains. Mac folded his arms and glared at him. "What? I'm just speaking the truth."

"Maybe it _is_ best to avoid it," Mac told him. "Now come on, Bloo, I don't want to stay around here any longer. Something just seems wrong."

Bloo sighed and rolled his eyes, then leapt off the swing. "Fine," he replied, following the boy back toward the doors. "But don't come crying to me when _I_ know the secret and _you_ don't."

The brown-haired boy rolled his eyes. "Oh, be quiet."

"What?"

"Nothing." Mac hopped up the front steps to the door. "Now how about we go play a nice game of checkers or something? I'll let you go first."

* * *

The living room was empty, desolate. Only Cal and Julia were in there now, sitting on a poorly-constructed couch made from wood and cloth, Cal sitting next to Julia. They had been left alone, as instructed by Julia; Mr. Kraige was still out in the field, Mrs. Kraige was still in the kitchen, and Hester was still upstairs. Chance had limped out onto the front porch in hopes that he could possibly work near the house. Julia was in a state of hysteria, sobbing heavily; Cal was trying his best to comfort her. 

"Cal, she's dead," Julia wailed, burying her face in the hem of her dress. "Colors is _dead_!"

"She can't be!" Cal replied, placing a hand on her shoulder, in a state of shock himself. "She was just fine yesterday—I mean, how on earth could someone have—"

"Someone killed her," Julia replied. "With a hatchet. My father found it buried in her head. There was blood everywhere—oh God…" She leaned against him, tears streaming down her face. "She was one of the best friends I ever had…who would _do_ such a thing?"

"I don't know," Cal replied softly. "Poor horse. What are you going to do with her body?"

"She's too special," Julia replied, looking at him through tear-clouded eyes. "We're going to bury her in the cemetery tonight. My father is already making a grave marker for—for—" She sobbed.

"I'm so sorry," Cal murmured, unsure of what to say. There was a moment of silence. "If it makes you feel any better, I'll get Chance, Hester and I to attend her funeral. It's the least we can do for your loss."

"No," she told him. "Just you and Hester. I don't want that…that…that _wretch_ anywhere near her grave!"

Cal seemed taken aback. "Julia…why?"

"I hate him," she replied. "He's too cold!"

"Chance isn't cold…he's just…well…" Cal paused, searching for a proper term to describe his elder sibling. "He's just in a phase right now. He really is nice…well…he _was _nice." He frowned. "Lately he's just been irritable, and even more so, now that he can't assist my father in the fields until his ribs heal."

"I still don't want him to come," she replied firmly. "Just you and Hester. You and Hester only."

Cal sighed, knowing that there was no possible way to convince her otherwise. He finally nodded. "We'll come tonight. I'll tell Hester about it as soon as possible."

"Thank you, Cal," she replied softly, draping her arms around his neck. A light sigh escaped her lips. "You really are an understanding person."

* * *

"Pick up, Rusty," Terrence moaned, slamming the phone back on its receiver and pressing the "Redial" button. "Come on, you moron, pick _up_…" 

He held the receiver up to his ear, listening. The phone rang once…twice…again…

There was a small _click_ noise, and the answering machine came on. Again. Growling in frustration, he slammed the receiver down, then slumped against the couch, head in one hand, groaning. This was the tenth time he'd tried Rusty's apartment, and no one had picked up. He was probably out doing something stupid again…

He flopped onto his back, sighing. "That buttmunch…he's the only one who knows _anything_ about what happened, and now he can't even answer the frigging phone." He shut his eyes, as a wave of color washed over his vision. "I shouldn't have let him do it. He studies the arts of Death way too seriously, that guy…"

He shuddered, remembering the blood that had caked around his body earlier that morning. Death. It had taken thirty minutes in the shower and almost an entire bar of soap to get the stuff off, and afterward the shower stall was covered in copper-red stain. He was glad, for once, that Mac was not in the house to see what had happened. The dumb kid would've suspected something for sure.

Staring at the ceiling, he tried to recall the events of last night, but it all seemed like a haze to him now. Like a nightmare that had frightened him, but now that the fear was gone, he remembered nothing. Just the screeching, the silver, and the wave of color.

Blood-red.

Carnage.

He shuddered again, drawing his arms around himself, looking in the direction of the blank television screen. As he stared at his reflection, motionless, he finally made a decision of what to do.

He had to go back to the cemetery. Tonight.

He had to know what the hell was going on with him.

And with Rusty out of the house, it was the only way he was going to find out.

* * *

"Thank you for the ride, Father," Cal said gratefully, hopping out of the wagon. He held Hester by the hand as she hopped down, taking care not to wrinkle her Sunday dress. "You do not know how much this means to us." 

His father managed a weak smile. "There still is plenty of work to do around the farm, but…" He exhaled through his teeth. "I'm glad to see you care for this little lady. You're really turning into quite the gentleman, Calloway."

Cal flushed slightly; he was glad that it was starting to grow dim out. "Thank you, Father," he replied. "I'm sure she feels the same way. Colors Flying was very important to her, and I felt that I needed to help."

His father nodded in response. "I'll be working in the field," he replied. "Remember to mind your little sister, and be careful on the way home. It's very hard to see the road after dark."

Cal nodded. His father cracked the reins, and the horse trotted off, toward the direction of the Kraige farm. Cal watched him depart, then, taking a deep breath, straightened out his Sunday jacket and walked up toward the front porch of the Harding house. Hester followed him, still unsure of what exactly was going on.

"I want you to be on your best behavior, Hester," Cal told his little sister as they approached the front door. "Julia's horse just died, and she isn't feeling her best. We're attending a funeral because we care. So be seen and not heard. Understand?"

Hester nodded. "Yes, Cal," she replied, clasping her hands together. "Promise."

Cal smiled, then knocked on the door. Julia's mother, Mrs. Harding, answered it. She looked worn from the past events, but her haggard features managed to brighten when she saw the two children.

"Oh, it's only you two," she sighed, opening the door wider. "Do come in. Julia and her father are in the family graveyard tending to Colors." She strode off in the direction of the kitchen. "Would you like a honey biscuit, dear? It's going to be quite a while before her father manages to bury the creature."

"No thank you, ma'am," Cal replied. "We'll just wait, if that's okay with you."

She nodded in response, and left the room. Cal sighed and took his seat on a slightly overstuffed couch, glancing around the room. The Hardings were certainly rich, all right—the entire room was decorated with fancy paintings and porcelain figurines. Above the mantle, he could see a small wooden box, edged with silver. He supposed that it was a family heirloom.

He and Hester waited on the couch until he heard the back door slam, and Julia walked in, wearing a silk baby-blue gown. Her face was streaked with tears, but she smiled when she saw Cal and Hester.

"Oh, you came," she exclaimed, rushing up and giving Cal a quick hug. "Thank you so much, Cal. I am sure that Colors will be very happy." Her gaze traveled to Hester. "This is your little sister?"

Cal nodded. "Yes," he replied, placing a hand on Hester's shoulder. "She was happy to come. She probably loves horses as much as you do."

"I am sorry for your loss," Hester told her, sliding down from the couch. "The way Cal talked about her, she must have been a very good horse."

Julia nodded sadly. "She was."

She then began to walk toward the back of the house. "Come," she told the two, motioning for them to follow. "My father is waiting out back. Colors is buried, and now we will say our final rights."

Cal and Hester, silent, walked after Julia, following her out into the family graveyard. Cal looked around him at the tombstones, feeling a slight pang of guilt rise in his chest. He couldn't help but feel that Colors's death was somehow his fault, but he knew that it was impossible. He was nowhere near the poor horse when she was killed; how could he know anything about it…?

_She was killed. With a hatchet._

It wasn't an accident, he knew. There was a madman on the loose, and he had to be careful. He had to watch for both Julia, Hester, and his family. And Chance.

Chance…

A shiver ran up his spine as he approached the grave where Colors lay. For a brief moment, he was glad that Chance had not attended the services.

* * *

"Tell me." 

"No."

"Tell me."

"No.

"Tell me!"

"No!" Wilt shook his head in disgust. "Bloo, I'm sorry to say this, but you are being really annoying, okay? Mr. Herriman told me and Eduardo to keep what happened in the mythical equestrian center a secret, and that's what we're gonna do."

"Come on, man!" Bloo said. "I'm a member of this house too, and I think I deserve to know what happened! Right, Mac?"

The brown-haired boy sighed and placed his head in one hand. "Bloo, stop it," he replied. "If something bad happened, maybe it's best that we _don't_ know about it. We'll probably just get into more trouble."

"Oh, so that's it," Bloo said crossly, folding his arms. "So we're all gonna gang up on Bloo now, aren't we? Well, that's just great. Fine. Keep your little secret. I don't even wanna know what happened anyway." He gave a snort of frustration and faced the fireplace, arms still tightly folded.

Wilt sighed and shook his head, then returned to the magazine he was reading. Mac returned to watching the sun set outside, while Bloo continued to pout in front of the fireplace. Things hung heavily in the air for a few moments before Madame Foster walked in through the door, tray of sandwiches in one hand.

She glanced around the room. "Holy Hanna, it's deader than a roadkill possum in here!" she exclaimed. She walked over to the table and set the tray down. "Quiet time's over, boys. I made you sandwiches."

Mac glanced up from the window, then smiled, walked over, and took a sandwich up in one hand. "Thanks, Madame Foster," he replied gratefully, taking a bite. "I haven't eaten anything yet today."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Bloo muttered, staring at the hearth.

Madame Foster took a seat next to Wilt on the couch, grabbing a bite of sandwich herself. "You boys are awfully quiet tonight," she commented. "What's the deal?"

"What's the deal?" Bloo stood up and faced the others. "I'll tell you what the deal is. Wilt, here—" he jabbed a fingerless limb in Wilt's direction—"is being a Mister Goody-two-shoes and isn't letting any of us in on what happened in the mythical equestrian center this morning!"

Wilt glared at him angrily. "Hey, Bloo—" he began to protest, but Madame Foster stopped him. She took another bite of the sandwich and shook her head.

"Ooh, bad thing today," she replied grimly, shaking her head. "Someone got into the grounds last night and attacked the unicorns. Murdered poor Joe. My granddaughter is in hysterics now because of it."

Wilt shot her a gaze of disapproval, but Bloo seemed fascinated. He bolted up to the table. "A murder?" he exclaimed. "Really?"

Foster nodded, her expression still grim. "Found a hatchet buried in his head. The poor creature probably didn't even have any last thoughts." She took another bite of her sandwich. "We've buried him in the old cemetery out back."

Mac's eyes were round. "You own a…?" he began.

Madame Foster nodded. "Out in the back, near the woods. It's been in my family for generations." She set the sandwich back down on the tray and folded her hands together. "My grandmother herself buried _her_ pets out there when she was just a little girl. We've been keeping the tradition." She nodded in the direction of the window. "We've fenced it off from the rest of the grounds. No one except family is allowed on the plot itself."

"I can understand that," Mac replied. Bloo's eyes were wide with anticipation.

"No way!" he exclaimed, his voice lined with excitement. "This is so cool! Just like something out of a creepy horror movie!" He looked in Mac's direction. "Wouldn't it be _so cool_ to find out if there's a madman loose on the grounds? It'll be just like…just like…" He grinned widely.

Madame Foster glared at him. "Don't even think about it, Bloo," she warned him. "There are things out in that plot that even you cannot be exposed to. It's a private place, and I expect the lot of you to keep it that way. Understand?"

"Yes, Madame Foster," the group chorused.

The old woman smiled, then got up from the couch. "Good," she told them; she then began to hobble toward the door. "Now finish up your sandwiches, boys. I have some business to attend to in the office."

The others waited in silence until she left; Bloo then gave a squeal of excitement and began to hop around the room. "This—is—so—cool!" he shouted with each leap. "I never even knew all the secrets about this house until now!"

Mac narrowed his eyes. "Bloo, no," he scolded. "Madame Foster is trying to keep us safe. There's no way, no way at all, that we're—"

"We are." Bloo approached Mac and Wilt, his eyes wild, adrenaline pumping through his body. He placed his hands on the table and leaned forward into their faces, grinning hugely, like a young child about to break the rules. The next words he spoke made both Wilt and Mac open their mouths in horror.

"Let's go there," Bloo told them. "Let's go there _tonight_."


End file.
